


We Looked Like Giants

by deerstalker221B



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerstalker221B/pseuds/deerstalker221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock breaks his promise, and John keeps his. After seven years, will they ever be able to go back to how they were before?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
> [ We Looked Like Giants by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwAUca79c4o)

###  Prologue 

#### 

> _And together there_  
>  _In a shroud of frost, the mountain air_  
>  _Began to pass from every pane of weathered glass_  
>  _And I held you closer than anyone would ever get_  
> 

The depression of the needle. A soft sigh from his lips penetrating the heavy silence of the flat.

The world sharpening, focussing. Every detail in alarming clarity. He saw dust motes dancing in the air. Each fibre of the fray in the carpet.

The solution.

The cocaine made him clearer, boosted his senses.

_'John won't be pleased...' _a small voice sang in the back of his mind.__

John would understand. John _had _to understand. He couldn't do it. He couldn't solve it. The jagged edges of each puzzle piece - he couldn't make them fit, they didn't correspond.__

The cocaine, the clarity it provided, it smoothed those rough edges. It made the pieces slot together in perfect harmony and suddenly he could see.

The phone call to Lestrade was brief. He spoke quickly, rattling off his evidence before collapsing into his chair.

_'If you use again, I'll leave.' _John had said. The set of his shoulders and his clenched fists told Sherlock he wasn't kidding.__

_"I can't see you destroy yourself like that." John had told him one morning, a few months after he'd moved in. A case. A drug ring. Temptation. John._  
 _Sherlock had dismissed him with a wave. "I am perfectly in control John. No temptation." he had lied with ease._  
 _"I mean it, Sherlock. I wasn't around when Greg dragged you out of the gutter, but I won't see you there again. You use, and I leave. Promise me, Sherlock."_  
 _"I promise." Sherlock had mumbled, reaching for his violin._

__Life without John._ _

__Empty._ _

__Lonely._ _

__Loveless._ _

__Unfathomable._ _

__Not. An. Option._ _

__But he'd broken his promise._ _

__John would understand. He knew the jumble of Sherlock's brain better than he knew the alphabet. John would understand that Sherlock's wires were crossed. His thoughts had knotted, a barrier between him and the solution._ _

__John would understand. Sherlock had to. He couldn't fail. Failure was not an option._ _

__He'd saved a girl. A five year old girl. Sherlock wouldn't dwell on it, but John would._ _

__Kind, caring, compassionate John. Warm John, who cared about the survivors._ _

_His_ John. 

__His, but for how much longer?  
_ _

  


The flat was silent when John got home. The door was slightly ajar, the papers on the desk rustling in the breeze from the open window. Sliding it shut, he turned to take in the state of the room. Papers everywhere. Empty mugs on the table. Sherlock's dressing gown discarded on the sofa.

____

__He padded to Sherlock's bedroom and peered in. The detective was wrapped up in the deep purple duvet, dead to the world. John smiled softly. He must have solved the case. He slipped into the room silently and brushed Sherlock's curls from his forehead._ _

__"You never remember to stop." he breathed, kissing the top of his head gently._ _

____

____

  


Back in the living room, a sturdy wooden box sat on a pile of papers. Although it appeared unassuming to the naked eye, this sturdy little box would cost Sherlock the only thing he'd ever needed.

____

__Forget Moriarty, this little wooden box was the thing that would ruin Sherlock's life._ _

__This little wooden box would cost Sherlock his most prized possession._ _

__It would cost him John._ _


	2. Prove My Hypotheses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The total number of chapters has gone up to eleven, because as I was writing this chapter, I realised that there was a natural break, so I spilt it into two.  
> As always, comments and feedback are appreciated!  
> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com)  
> As of yet, I have no concrete update schedule. I'm ploughing my way through my notes and getting as much done as I can. I hope to have it done before the 10th of May, because that's when my study leave begins.
> 
> [Prove My Hypotheses by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JewHsv0dcQA)

###  Prove My Hypotheses 

#### 

> _"The parting was ugly, it brought him to tears."_  
>  _You said wait here, prove all my hypotheses._  
> 

It was two hours later that John caught sight of the seemingly harmless little box.

He frowned, his fingers smoothing over the hard oak. The cold metal of the latch stood out against the rich, dark wood. He'd never seen it before (and later he'd hope that he'd never see it again).

He ran his fingers over the smooth wood once more, flipping the latch open. Though the box stood empty, it didn't take the world's only consulting detective to work out what belonged there, nestled into the silk interior. His eyes scanned the room, took in the disarray of their flat until they landed on what he was looking for. 

Discarded next to the sofa were two things John Watson hoped he would never find in their flat.

The sunlight from behind him glinted on the chrome of the ornate syringe. The bottle next to it still had dregs of the clear liquid in the bottom when John nudged it with his foot. He knelt and picked them both up, his hands shaking.

Sherlock had promised. Two years ago, Sherlock had made that promise to him.

A promise he had now broken.

John threw the glass bottle against the wall, smashing it, the shards skittering across the floor.

  


The noise woke Sherlock, who sniffed morosely, then rolled out of bed. He stumbled into the living room rubbing his eyes. He wrapped his arms around John from behind and buried his face in the shorter man's hair.

"You promised me." John whispered, still clutching the syringe, his body rigid. "You promised me that you wouldn't."

Sherlock frowned, then looked down at John's hand.

Oh.

"John, I can explain-"

"Save it." John spat, pushing Sherlock away from him. "You promised me you wouldn't use again."

Sherlock stared at John, his jaw clenched. "John, I had to-"

"No you didn't! You didn't have to! You never have to! Sherlock, you've got a brilliant mind. You don't need to screw yourself up with this shit!" He tossed the syringe onto the sofa and glared at Sherlock for a few tense minutes.

Every muscle in Sherlock's body buzzed. He wanted to explain, to make John understand. An irrational part of him wanted to fall at John's feet and beg forgiveness, but he dismissed that part rapidly. He wanted to justify his actions, alert John to the little girl he had saved, but something in the lines of John's face made him hold his tongue. 

Time seemed to stretch on in those silent minutes. Sherlock felt as though years were passing on the streets below, people laughing, loving, ageing, dying, all while he and John remained here in their isolated bubble.

John moved first. 

Sherlock flinched.

He closed his eyes and tensed for the blow he expected. Verbal or physical, it didn't matter to him. It would hurt all the same.

But no blow came. When Sherlock opened his eyes, John was no longer in front of him. A clatter from the bedroom alerted Sherlock to John's location. 

He hesitated in the doorway as John took his clothes from the wardrobe. 

"John?" Sherlock whispered softly. "John I don't understand."

John didn't look at him. He packed his clothes in silence, his actions jerky and rough.

Eventually, he spoke. 

"Do you even remember making that promise?" John asked. When Sherlock nodded he continued. "Do you remember what else I told you? I made a promise that day too, Sherlock. I didn't say the words 'I promise you', but it was a promise all the same. Do you remember what it was?"

Silence.

 _"Do you remember what it was?"_ John demanded.

"You said you'd leave." Sherlock whispered.

"That's right. I said I'd leave. You may have broken your promise, Sherlock, but I intend to keep mine." John shouldered his bag and pushed past Sherlock.

"John, please! I didn't mean-"

"You didn't mean what? To get caught?" He turned back to Sherlock. "You didn't _mean_ to leave the box out? Were you going to hide it before I got home?" John spat.

Sherlock closed his mouth, suddenly lost for words. He had meant to hide the box before John got home. He'd meant to replace the syringe and the empty bottle and put the box back in its hiding place. 

But he sensed that telling John that would only anger him further.

"I'm sorry." he whispered instead.

"No you're not." John replied, his stance becoming more rigid. He all but marched to the front door, glancing at Sherlock only once. "Goodbye, Sherlock." He whispered, his voice soft. "I- I-" He swallowed and shook his head. Not now. It wouldn't do to say that now. 

Without another word, John Watson walked out of Baker Street, and out of Sherlock's life.


	3. A Lack Of Colour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> [A Lack Of Colour by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-wLgrRNFS0)

###  A Lack Of Colour

#### 

> _I slur a plea for you to come home_  
>  _But I know it's too late_  
>  _I should have given you a reason to stay_  
>  _Given you a reason to stay_  
> 

Stillness.

Emptiness.

Sherlock stared into the vacant half of the wardrobe as though it could help him, as though he'd be able to pick out a solution.

A patch to fix this problem. A software update, a remedy. But none came. 

There was no was fix for this. 

He'd brought it upon himself. While his mind had been racing in a post-case thrill, he'd slipped up. He'd meant to hide the box. His intention was that John never found out. 

But then, wasn't that worse somehow?

If only he'd hidden it. Why hadn't he hidden it? Fatigue. It made even great minds stutter. Four days without sleep had caught up on Sherlock, it had hit him like a rock.

_'I'll do it later. I'll hide it before John comes home. Later. Later...'_

There was an empty throbbing low in his gut. A tugging in his heart as though it were attached to a rope. A rope that was tied firmly around the heart of one Doctor John Watson.  
A rope that was tugging because John was gone.

Sherlock clutched at his chest. He had no idea loss could feel so tangible. A whole section of his brain had shut off to mourn. 

Mourning. No, not mourning. Mourning implies a world without John. John was still out there, somewhere. 

He just wasn't Sherlock's anymore.

They say bad things happen to good people, don't they? Sherlock had often heard that phrase. Usually when Sherlock heard it though, the good people in question didn't turn out to be so good after all. But Sherlock had never been seen as good, had he? Do terrible things happen to bad people? It would seem fitting.

He'd brought it upon himself. 

He knew John's rule, John's only rule.  
 _'You use, and I leave.'_  
But he'd still done it, hadn't he? And he'd left the evidence for John to find.

Why hadn't he hidden it?

Sherlock knew the human psyche intimately. He could analyse and justify why anyone did anything. But his own psychology was often a mystery to him. 

Had he hoped John would find it? Had he left it out on purpose?

He shook his head. John was a constant. John was Sherlock's only constant. 

Sherlock loved John, though he'd never said it enough.

Sherlock made mistakes sometimes, but he refused to believe that even his subconscious would be masochistic enough to sabotage the one thing he held dear. The only person he'd let in. His best and only friend. His John.

Anger stirred in the pit of his stomach. Anger at all that he was. Anger at a 21 year old version of himself - so young, so much potential, but already beyond saving.

Anger at this version of himself, the Sherlock that had opened up, made himself vulnerable. The Sherlock that had not only let John Watson in, but had welcomed him with open arms. 

No. 

He would not be angry about that. If he lived the scenario a thousand times over, he would choose to love John Watson every time.  
Sherlock wasn't sure he would even have a choice. They were two poles of a magnet. Opposites, undeniably attracting.

Had you told Sherlock Holmes ten, fifteen years ago that he would fall in love, his laugh of derision would have cut you to shreds.

But now? Now Sherlock wondered how he had every survived without love. Without John Watson by his side.

His life had become phases, each named after their defining feature. Childhood. Adolescence. Addiction. Before John. John.

And now, this new time. After John.

Many years ago, Sherlock had resigned himself to a life of solitude. He'd never expected to meet someone like John.  
John, who'd seemed so ordinary, with his military stature and his cosy jumpers. John, who Sherlock had been ready to dismiss immediately.

But he hadn't been ordinary. John Watson was far from ordinary. So quick to protect Sherlock, to kill a man for him although they'd only met hours previous. John, who had swept into Sherlock's life like a hurricane, but instead of leaving destruction in his wake, had left tranquillity and clarity, and then emptiness.

His John, the only man he'd ever loved. The only man who could make Sherlock better than he already was.

Sherlock's knees gave way beneath him and he hit the floor. He felt numb, empty, as though he really was just a shell.

Transport, he'd always said. The body is just transport. But transport didn't hurt this much. The ache in his chest strengthened with every passing moment, a low thudding started at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock felt as though his heart would burst. Illogical, as his heart was the emptiest it had ever been.  


He abhorred it.


	4. Grapevine Fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> [ Grapevine Fires by Death Cab For Cutie ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu4qQKlyF7s)

###  Grapevine Fires 

#### 

> _A wake up call to a rented room,_  
>  _Sounded like an alarm of impending doom,_  
>  _To warn us it's only a matter of time,_  
>  _Before we all burn._  
> 

Seven years later, John Watson sighed as he stood on the platform. The torrential downpour outside made him long to hibernate inside the station, but that wasn't an option. Pulling his coat over his head and shouldering his bag, he ventured out onto the rainy streets of London.

The two room flat was by no means homely. But John wasn't looking for homely, he just needed something practical. Dumping his bag on the small single bed in the corner of the main room, he shrugged off his coat and looked around. 

The off-green walls matched the faded carpet, and the kitchen looked as though it had been installed in the 70's. Probably had, judging by the age of the building. The bathroom was the size of a particularly small cupboard, and a dingy, grimy light bulb swung from the fixture. His first, and overwhelming thought, was how unlike Baker Street it was. He mentally kicked himself. He'd chosen to leave Baker Street all those years ago, it wouldn't do to compare this place to it.

Chosen? No, he hadn't chosen. Not really. He'd been forced. John kept his promises. He was a loyal man. Loyal, but to who? 

A few hours later, John's phone buzzed. He frowned -no one should have his number. He reached for it, unlocking the screen and squinting to read the text in the dimly lit room. 

_**Heard you were back in London. Fancy a pint? It's been too long - Greg.**_

John bit his lip. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he typed out a reply regardless and hit send. 

_**Sure, I'll meet you at The King's Head at 8.**_

He almost didn't go. John had come back to London simply because he couldn't bear to be anywhere else. Seven years in the countryside had only cemented his love for the city, and every day he had missed the hustle and bustle, the constant sounds of people moving, living, breathing, loving. The excited chatter, the traffic through the night. The countryside had been far too calm and tranquil for John's liking, and as soon as he had nothing to tie him there, he had upped stakes and moved back to the heart of the city he loved. 

He had to admit (to himself, that is - he would never say it aloud) that he owed his love of London, in part, to Sherlock Holmes. The city is never the same when you see it from beside the world's only consulting detective. What began as an infatuation rapidly developed into a deep-routed passion. How can one not be passionate about the city when they've run through its streets at midnight next to the man they love, adrenaline pumping through their veins?

John shook his head. That thought path led to dangerous territory. 

He entered the pub ten minutes late, spying Greg in a booth in the corner. 

The man John had come to know well, and to even call a good friend, looked even more worn around the edges than he had seven years ago. His eyes were bordered by deep-set wrinkles; some of them laughter lines, some of them ingrained deep through stress and worry. His face lit up and he smiled as John walked over. It was a relief to still have a familiar face in London, he had to admit.

"Hello Greg." he smiled, offering his hand. Greg rolled his eyes and pulled him into a hug.

"Long time no see, John. What brings you back to London?" he asked, taking his seat again and nudging a pint over to John.

"Couldn't be anywhere else." John laughed, for the first time in months. "I missed it, you know? There's nowhere quite like it."

"I know exactly what you mean," Greg laughed. "Once you've been here so long, it's almost impossible to leave, isn't it? But you managed it. Where are you living?"

John took a swig of his pint. "I've got a cheap little place in Hammersmith. It's not pretty, but it'll do."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I suppose there's not much room for you in Baker Street anymore, is there?"

John swallowed nervously. Did he really want to talk about this? He took a deep breath. "W-What do you mean?" he asked, fiddling with his shirt sleeve. 

"Well, with Victor moving in a while back, there's no room for three men in that house." Greg replied, oblivious to John's discomfort.

"Victor?" John asked, his head snapping up. He forced himself to look nonchalant. "Who's Victor?"

Greg frowned. "Oh." he breathed, his eyes wide. "You... I'd assumed that seeing as you were back, you'd have gotten in touch with Sherlock. My mistake, sorry John." he rambled, suddenly nervous.

"I haven't spoken to Sherlock in seven years." John mumbled, taking another mouthful of beer. "Had no reason to." 

"Well, Victor's Sherlock's new... I guess you could call them flatmates. Though I'm not sure flatmates are that... cosy with each other." Greg shook his head and shrugged. "I reckon they're together. Wouldn't surprise me."

John stayed silent. His heart throbbed and a dull ache rippled through his stomach. Sherlock had moved on. John had no right to feel so hurt - he'd left first. But the ache was still there. Sherlock had abhorred human contact, had very little time for it. He'd let John in, had loved him completely, just as John had loved him in return. Is that why it hurt John that Sherlock had moved on? Had he thought himself special? Had he really expected Sherlock to stay alone while John himself started a new life?

But then, Sherlock had been alone before John, was it really too much to assume he would remain that way after John was gone?

"How- How long have they known each other?" he asked, trying to sound casual. He knew that further discussion about Sherlock's new companion would serve only to worsen the aching in his heart, but his curiosity won out over his self-preservation. 

"Oh, a few years, I should think." Greg replied lightly. "Met on a case, I believe. Sherlock was employed by some shipping company to find a missing shipping container, Victor worked in PR for the company. They've been... close, ever since."

"I... I see." John sighed. "Does he... Help Sherlock work?"

"Not as often as you used to. He's only helped us once or twice. And between you and me, he's pretty useless. I think that's why Sherlock doesn't bring him along anymore." Greg grinned at John.

"Oh," John smiled slightly, feeling a little smug. "And... And how is he? Sherlock, I mean?"

Greg looked at him for a while before he spoke again. "Things were... Rough after you left. He didn't talk to any of us for about three weeks. Didn't help us on any cases, wouldn't even let Mrs Hudson in. We had to find out from her that you'd gone. It wasn't until two months later that he burst back into Scotland Yard demanding we give him a case. I tried to talk to him, tried to find out where you were, why you'd gone, but he wouldn't tell me anything. He came in, he solved the case, he went home. He looked like shit, I'll be honest. I don't think he was sleeping, he probably barely ate. I was worried, you know? Never seen him in such a state. Then one day he just... snapped out of it. Met Victor a few months later, seemed to settle down."

"So he never... relapsed? Never went back to the drugs?" John asked hesitantly.

"No, I kept a good eye on him when you left. I knew someone had to make sure he wasn't relapsing. He hasn't touched any drugs in the seven years I've been keeping an eye on him." Greg hesitated. "John, I'm not sure it's my place to say, but... He hasn't been the same since you left. He's not as... Happy. God, happy isn't the right word."

"I don't understand." John frowned.

"When you were living in Baker Street, Sherlock was the most stable I've ever seen him. I'd go so far as to say he was... happy. He used to smile when you were around. I don't think I've seen him smile in seven years John. He's not the same without you. He needs his best friend back." Greg sighed, finishing his pint. "But... It's not my place to interfere."

"He doesn't need me," John replied curtly. "He's got _Victor_."

A better man wouldn't feel a burning jealousy like that which simmered low in John's stomach. A better man would be happy that Sherlock wasn't alone, that he had found someone else to take care of him. But John wasn't a better man, and the jealousy burned like acid on his tongue.

"Victor's got nothing on you." Greg told him solemnly. He shrugged again and ordered two more pints. "So, what have _you_ been up to since I last saw you?" he asked, trying to lighten the tone.

"How long have you got?" John snorted. 

Taking another calming sip from his pint, John began to tell Greg everything.


	5. Pity and Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
> [ Pity and Fear by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwKISxx9u4A)

###  Pity and Fear

#### 

> _Spare no tears,_  
>  _Just pity and fear,_  
>  _And I recall_  
>  _The push more than the fall._  
> 

"First of all, I suppose I should tell you why I left. It must have seemed pretty heartless of me,to just up and leave him alone like that. The thing is, he broke a promise. I know that sounds pathetic, but it was the one thing I could never forgive him for. He promised me, nine years ago, that he would never touch another dose of cocaine. He broke that promise, Greg. Not only that, but he planned to hide it from me." John took a deep breath. "I left because I had to. I'd promised him that if he ever used again, I would leave. He broke his promise, but I kept mine."

Greg nodded. "You had no choice." he agreed.

"I couldn't watch him destroy himself, Greg. I loved him. I was so in love with him that sometimes I couldn't breathe. I couldn't sit by and watch him spiral into addiction again. I told him I would leave. So I did." He looked up to gauge Greg's reaction.

"You were together?" Greg asked, trying to sound casual. "Can't say I'm surprised. I always thought that if you weren't already, you definitely should have been. I guess that's why you leaving affected him so much. So what did you do while you were gone?"

"Oh, the usual. I wallowed in self-pity for 12 months, then I met a nice girl. Her name's Mary. Wonderful woman. Anyway, we met about six years ago. Within six months we were married. I was crazy about her, she was everything to me."

"Was?" Greg asked. "What happened?"

"All in good time," John smiled slightly. "She encouraged me to take up a position at the village surgery. It was nice enough, at first, but there's only so many times you can smile at a thousand pensioners as they list off every ailment." he laughed to himself. "She kept telling me to persevere, that I was too much of a city boy - all it would take was a few months and I'd be sufficiently 'country' enough to enjoy it. Turns out she just wanted me out of the house. She was cheating on me, for the last three years of our marriage, with anyone who paid her the slightest bit of notice."

Greg inhaled sharply. "Jesus, sorry mate." He mumbled.

"Nothing to be done. Needless to say, I divorced her as soon as I found out. Once the papers came through, there was no reason for me to stay in the countryside. That's why I've come back here."

Greg let out a low whistle, then he froze. "Oh god, and I just sat there talking about Victor, John I'm so sorry."

John shook his head. "Not your fault, you didn't know. And it would be unfair for me to have expected Sherlock to stay lonely when I went off and got married." He smiled up at Greg softly.

There was a pause. "John? Do you still love him?" Greg asked him quietly.

"Of course I do. No matter how hard I try, there's no way to stop loving Sherlock Holmes." He let out a sigh in resignation. "But someone beat me to him." He let out a humourless laugh. "Oh well."

"Are you going to go and see him?" Greg asked, sipping the dregs of his second pint. "Now that you're back you two could... I don't know. At least be friends again?"

John shook his head. "That won't work. I can't waltz back into his life like that. Not now that he's got Victor." He looked Greg dead in the eye. "I can't watch him love someone else like that. I would rather not be in his life, than have to sit on the sidelines and watch him love someone else how he used to love me."

"Jesus, John, I'm so sorry. I wish I'd have known. I wouldn't have..."

"What, you wouldn't have told me? Don't apologise, Greg. You did me a favour. If you hadn't told me, I'd have made a prat out of myself. In fact, I owe you one. Can I get you another beer?" he asked, getting up.

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Greg replied offhandedly.

When John came back with two more pints, Greg had finally worked out what he wanted to say. "I always had my suspicions, you know. About the two of you. The way he looked at you... Like everything you said was of the utmost importance to him. He watched you like his world revolved around you, which I guess it kind of did. I've never seen him look at anyone else like that." He lowered his voice. "Especially not Victor."

John shook his head. "I see what you're trying to do, Greg, and while I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, I won't change my mind. I'm not going to go looking for Sherlock on the off chance he still loves me. I have too much self-respect for that."

They talked over a few more beers. Greg told him all about the cases they'd solved over the years, with and without Sherlock's help, but John only listened to the ones in which Sherlock was involved. He played over Greg's words in his head, desperately trying to extinguish the tiny flame of hope that flickered in his heart.

_'I've never seen him look at anyone else like that. Especially not Victor.'_

At quarter to midnight, they went their separate ways - Greg back to his office, and John back to his barren flat.

That night, he dreamt of Sherlock. Images of the years they had spent together shimmered in his dreams, vague and muffled, like silent movies playing just out of reach. Whenever he tried to focus on them, they shattered and splintered into millions of pieces, the shards ricocheting around his head.

Only one image remained clear, one memory replaying in his head a thousand times.

The next morning, John Watson woke up with an ache in his heart that had never been stronger.


	6. Your New Twin Sized Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> [ Your New Twin Sized Bed by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZbY-Bktp1I)

###  Your New Twin Sized Bed 

#### 

> _And I try not to worry, but you've got me terrified,_  
>  _It's like you're in some kind of hurry to say goodbye._  
>  _You look so defeated lying there in your new twin sized bed._  
> 

On a brisk morning a few weeks later, John pulled on his coat and headed out to buy some milk. The bitingly cold wind stung his cheeks and made his eyes water as he made his way down the street. The warmth and shelter of the shop was a welcome retreat, and he began wandering down the aisles. 

As he opened the fridge door to pick up some milk, a velvet baritone rumbled behind him. "You're the last person I expected to find here." John took a deep breath. He'd recognise that voice anywhere. Turning to face the man he had left seven years ago, he shut the door with his shoulder. "I needed milk." He offered lamely. 

"Evidently." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. He took in John's appearance. More grey hairs littered John's head, and he held his weight on his good leg - that meant his limp was back. Sherlock noticed the band of pale skin on John's left ring finger. 

"You were married?" he asked before he could stop himself. He hurriedly hid his look of surprise. "But not anymore. Serial adulterer?" 

"At least some things never change." John hissed, turning his back on Sherlock and walking away. A few seconds later, Sherlock caught up with him. "No, John, wait. I'm sorry." 

John stopped. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he asked curtly. 

"I just- I didn't know you were home. Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Because it's none of your business, to be honest. I got on with my life, you got on with yours. It's been seven years, Sherlock. I wasn't going to just turn up on your doorstep." John walked away from him again. When silence followed, he assumed Sherlock had gotten bored. No such luck. 

When he left the shop, his shopping in his hands, Sherlock pushed off from the wall and walked next to him on the pavement. "Who was she?" he asked. "The woman you married." 

"Her name was Mary. She teaches at the primary school in Etchingham." 

"So that's where you've been all this time? East Sussex? How dull." Sherlock let out a breath of cold air. 

John tried not to notice how the drops of rain clung to Sherlock's hair. He tried not to watch the drops run down his neck as they dripped from his sodden curls. How the sinews and muscles of Sherlock's neck moved as he looked around. He shook his head and looked away. 

"So what happened?" Sherlock asked, wrapping his coat around himself tighter. 

"She cheated on me. Repeatedly. So I divorced her and moved back here." John told him, the cold aggravating his leg. He began to limp slightly, and of course, Sherlock noticed. 

"Well then she's an idiot." he mumbled, taking one of the bags of shopping from John. "Dinner? I'm starving." 

John frowned. Why was Sherlock acting like nothing had happened? Part of John thrilled at the thought of picking up where they left off, but the rest of him held back. 

"Why?" he asked cautiously. 

"Like I said, I'm starving." Sherlock replied, smiling down at John. He noticed that it didn't quite reach his eyes. 

"Fine." John agreed, against his better judgement. 

John recognised the route they were taking and smiled to himself when they arrived at Angelo's.  
"Really?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. 

"Finest food in all of London." Sherlock chuckled. "At least, that's what Angelo tells me." 

He held the door open for John and ushered him into their usual spot. John sat awkwardly, staring out the window. 

"So," he said after a while, turning to look at Sherlock. "How've you been?" 

"Were you planning on avoiding me?" Sherlock asked almost simultaneously. 

"Yes." John admitted quickly. "I saw no reason to tell you I was back. I'm of little concern to you now." 

"You're more of an idiot than I suspected if you think that's true." Sherlock told him softly. 

"Why should you care though?" John asked. "I left, a long time ago. I'm surprised you can even look at me." 

"If I blink, I might miss something." Sherlock smirked. "I have seven years worth of information to deduce." He arched his fingers under his chin and watched John. "In answer to your question, John, I've been very well. The work has been good while you've been gone, I've often found myself wishing you were with me to appreciate it." 

John said nothing, trying desperately to suppress a smile. He knew he was on dangerous ground, but he couldn't help it. It felt good to be near Sherlock, like he was where he belonged. 

Harry had, many years ago, accused him of 'orbiting' Sherlock.  
"You follow him around like a puppy, always dragged behind by this inexplicable force. I don't understand." She'd said. 

At the time, John had dismissed her as ridiculous, but the more he'd thought about it over the following days, the more he realised she was right. Even now, sitting opposite him, John was being pulled back into his orbit. The inexplicable force, Sherlock's own personal gravity. When John had left all those years ago, he'd felt something more than mere loss. He felt empty, yes, but he also felt as though he was drifting. And now he understood why. He _was_ drifting - a satellite knocked out of orbit, no known path, no home. His home was here, his home was the man sitting opposite. His home had a new satellite. 

Sherlock's eyes focused on something over John's shoulder and his smile slipped momentarily. John glanced over his shoulder and saw a tall man, about a decade younger than himself, heading towards them. 

"Sherlock," the man smiled. "I should have known I'd find you here. You can't avoid Mycroft forever you know. He's been round the flat three times already today looking for you." He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leant down to kiss his cheek. 

John grit his teeth. So this was Victor. 

"While I do try to avoid my dear brother at all costs," Sherlock replied. "That's not why I'm here. Catching up with an old friend of mine." he motioned to John. 

"Colleague." John corrected, offering Victor his hand. "John Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you." he lied. 

Sherlock looked wounded for a split second before his face returned to the cool mask of disregard it usually was. John noticed his hurt expression all the same. 

"Victor Trevor," the tall man replied. "I'm Sherlock's... partner, I guess, it's complicated." he laughed. 

"It always is with Sherlock." John mumbled, glancing over at the consulting detective. 

"Oh they sound like the wise words of a man who has had many dealings with Sherlock." Victor laughed. 

A wave of regret hit John. Under different circumstances, he had the feeling he would have found a kindred spirit in Victor. 

However now, he despised the man. 

"I've had my fair share." John replied with a tense smile. 

Victor took the seat next to Sherlock and draped his arm across the back of his chair. John found himself staring at Victor's hand where it stroked Sherlock's arm. 

"John-" Sherlock began softly. 

John stood up from his seat quickly. "I really should be going." He mumbled, picking up his bags. "There's stuff in here that needs to go in the fridge. I'd best be off." He gave Victor another tense smile, then looked at Sherlock. 

"Goodbye, Sherlock." he whispered. 

"John!" Sherlock called, following him out of the restaurant. "John, please," he begged, easily catching up with him. "Please." he said again, his eyes imploring John. 

"No, Sherlock. This was a mistake. I really think-" John swallowed a wave of emotion. "I should have been more careful to stay away from you. I can't- I'm sorry. I can't do this." 

"John, let me explain, please." Sherlock gripped the sleeve of John's coat and held it tightly. 

"Sherlock, you have nothing to explain, let me go. I never expected things to be the same as they were when I left. I got married, you met someone else. It's okay, really. You don't have to- have to- Just go back to him. You shouldn't be out here with me. Have a nice life, Sherlock." he mumbled, extracting himself from Sherlock's grip and walking away. 

It wasn't until he was home with the door firmly locked that he let himself cry.


	7. Bixby Canyon Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> [ Bixby Canyon Bridge by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4St1fiq2F8I)

###  Bixby Canyon Bridge

#### 

> _In the silence it became so very clear,_  
>  _That you had long ago disappeared._  
>  _I cursed myself for being surprised,_  
>  _That this didn't play like it did in my mind._  
> 

In his empty apartment, John sat against the door and cried. He wasn't sure for how long, but it was dark when he finally dried his eyes. He changed his clothes and climbed into the small bed in the corner, unable to stop replaying the encounter in his head. 

About an hour later, he noticed a light flashing on his phone. Reaching for it, he saw that he had one new message from earlier that day. 

**Well, needless to say, the wasn't how I pictured our reunion - SH**

John's fist clenched around his phone. Had he not made it clear to Sherlock that he wanted no more part in his life? Apparently not. 

**How did you get my number?**

John glared at the patch of damp on the ceiling above his bed, not blinking until his phone vibrated again in his hand. 

**Mycroft - SH**

John groaned. He should have realised that the elder Holmes brother would have access to his new number. He probably gave it to Greg, too. 

**Of course.**

**He does have his uses sometimes - SH**

**Leave me alone, Sherlock.**

It wasn't an easy thing for John to say, but it needed to be said. John was still in love with Sherlock. Irrevocably. Nothing in the near future would change that. But Sherlock had found someone new, had a new relationship, and John was damned if he was going to get in the way of it. 

**Not until you let me explain - SH**

John rolled his eyes. Not this again. They'd been over this outside Angelo's. Even though he knew how much Sherlock hated repetition, he told him the same thing he had earlier that day. 

**There's nothing to explain. You met someone else, you settled down. End of story.**

**I still need you - SH**

John's breath caught in his throat. He bit back more tears and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't do this. He couldn't let Sherlock give him even the smallest glimmer of hope. Sherlock was no longer his. John had no claim over him. So why was Sherlock acting like he did? 

**No you don't. You have Victor now.**

John threw his phone down on the bedside table and turned his back on it. It hurt him to admit that Victor had taken his place. Victor was the one doing all the things John used to. Victor was the one to mediate between the Holmes brothers. Victor got to hold Sherlock when a migraine hit, or to coax him to sleep after a tiring case. That was no longer John's job, and while he wasn't happy to accept it, he knew it was his own fault. He'd given up the best thing that had ever happened to him. It wasn't Victor's fault that he'd noticed how special Sherlock was too.  
But that didn't make it hurt any less. 

And then, as if Sherlock had read John's mind 

**He's not you. He'll never be you - SH**

**That's probably a good thing.**

_'At least he won't hurt you like I did.'_ John thought to himself. 

**It's not. Not when I want you - SH**

John's body hummed with tension. He got out of bed and paced his small apartment, his phone still clutched in his hand. 

He had two options. He knew which was most noble, and he knew which he wanted most. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and chose. 

**You don't want me, Sherlock.**

He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Sherlock, or himself. He stumbled into the kitchen, tears pricking his eyes. The tiled floor was cool against the bottoms of his feet, and it helped to ground him. He was doing the right thing. He knew he was. 

So why did it hurt so much? 

**I do. Just like I did ten years ago - SH**

_Their apartment, ten years earlier._

_They'd just caught a serial killer - nasty business, 7 victims. John leant against the wall of their living room, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He laughed, turning to share his high with Sherlock._

_Only to find the consulting detective staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face._

_"Sherlock?" He'd asked. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"_

_Before he knew it, Sherlock's hands had been all over him._

_"I want you." Sherlock had breathed."I need you."_

John dropped to his knees, the memory overwhelming him momentarily. He could still remember how desperate Sherlock had been, how he'd begged John. John remembered Sherlock telling him he loved him, the gentle caresses in the dark. 

**You don't.**

He didn't. How could he? There was no way he could still feel that for John, not with Victor in the picture. Sherlock's feelings couldn't have remained that intense... Could they? 

**I do, John. Spend tonight with me and I'll prove it - SH**

It would be so easy. So easy to say yes. To take Sherlock all over again, to have possession of his body and his mind. John could almost taste Sherlock's skin, could almost feel the muscles move under his palms. He let out a cry of anguish. He couldn't, it wasn't right. He couldn't do it. 

**No. I won't help you cheat on Victor.**

John stumbled back to bed, his heart pounding and his chest throbbing. He could have had it. He could have taken in all back, taken what was his. 

Instead, it was all disappearing right in front of him. 

His phone buzzed for the last time that night and through a veil of tears he read the final message. His heart clenched and the phone slipped from his grasp, bouncing across the floor. 

The display lit up the room, lighting up John's weeping figure, before fading to black. 

**Is it cheating if I've always been yours? - SH**


	8. The Ice Is Getting Thinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
> Sorry this chapter took me so long to upload, life kind of got on top of me.
> 
>  
> 
> [ The Ice Is Getting Thinner by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_7avY5NpZ4)

###  The Ice Is Getting Thinner 

#### 

> _We're not the same, dear, as we used to be,_  
>  _The seasons have changed and so have we._  
>  _There was little we could say, and even less we could do,_  
>  _To stop the ice from getting thinner under me and you._  
> 

**St Bart's. Meet me there in half an hour - SH**  


 **Please - SH**

John stared at the message. It was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea. But he grabbed his coat anyway and rushed out into the street. 

Sherlock paced the lab, wringing his hands. 

This was it. The things he wanted to say to John lined themselves up in his head like disciplined soldiers, ready to march. 

_I'm sorry._  


_I miss you._

_I love you._

His gaze darted around the room. Molly was out to lunch, she wouldn't be back until two . Victor was visiting his mother - no interruption there. Lestrade had been made aware that Sherlock had something important to do. 

No, everything was ready. 

Sherlock deemed it poetic, for them to be reunited in the same place they first met all those years ago. It hadn't changed much - the utilitarian starkness had not softened over the years, yet Sherlock had always held this lab with a certain degree of sentiment. 

Sentiment. He rolled his eyes slightly. It made no sense. He had first met John here, did that warrant him insisting he only ever used this lab? Did that make it acceptable that he held this particular room in higher regard than any other room in the hospital? Ridiculous - why hold a room in high regard? It was just four walls, a ceiling and a floor. 

But it wasn't, was it? It was the room that changed Sherlock's life forever. It was the room that introduced him to the only man who could make him _better_. His very own conductor of light, his flame in the darkness, a collection of matter in the whole universe that belonged to him and him alone. 

He thought of this woman, the woman John had married. The woman who had broken him, cheated on him, shattered him. Sherlock thought of all the years John had spent in this woman's bed, sharing intimate moments with her, whispering _'I love you'_ s in the night as he had once done to Sherlock. 

Until John, Sherlock had prided himself on being able to rise above petty emotions such as jealousy. But the image of John in the arms of someone else, no less a woman who treated him badly, made Sherlock's stomach lurch, left an acidic taste in his mouth. 

He didn't realise he'd crushed the test tube in his hand until he felt the broken glass break the skin of his palm. 

As he dressed his wound, his thoughts turned to Victor. Victor Trevor, the only person Sherlock had let in after John left. He thought of all the times Victor had told him he loved him. He thought of all the times he hadn't been able to say it back. 

_I love John._

Perhaps it _had_ been cruel of him to string Victor along for so long. John had changed Sherlock - Sherlock-after-John needed someone beside him. He'd tried being alone, but his mind rebelled at the silence. 

Victor had been the only person Sherlock could tolerate once John had gone. 

_You don't love Victor. You never have._

_He's a distraction, nothing more._

But Sherlock had kept him around, simply because the thought of being alone terrified him. 

But now John was back and things were complicated. Sherlock would always be John's. Just as John orbited Sherlock, Sherlock needed his satellite. John's trajectory matched perfectly with his own - the two of them, independent paths that were intertwined - strong on their own, together unstoppable. 

The rhyme to his reason, he was like a moth to John's flame. Mirror facing mirror, their image repeated infinitely. They would always be Sherlock&John. 

Though Sherlock had despised sentiment, the longer he had known John, the firmer his belief became that if he were to cut open his own heart, the name 'John' would be etched deep into the tissue, pumping through his veins, ingrained deep into his bones. 

There was no competition. His heart was, and always had been, John's.  


John hesitated as he stood outside the lab. This was it. He went in, there was no turning back. Everything rested on this moment. For a fleeting second, he thought of turning and leaving, but he heard Sherlock mutter something to himself and his heart lurched. On the journey over, he'd managed to kid himself that he had a choice. That he could choose not to go in. But now, standing with his hand on the door handle, he knew that this had always been his only option. As surely as spring followed winter and night followed day, John followed Sherlock. 

"Sherlock?" he whispered, walking hesitantly into the room. "What- What's this all about?" 

Sherlock's head snapped up. In all honesty, part of him had expected John not to show up. His stomach fluttered at the sight of the army doctor, _his_ army doctor. 

"John." he breathed, straightening up. 

"What's this about, Sherlock?" John asked again, ignoring the somersault his stomach did at the sound of Sherlock breathing his name again after all this years. 

"I thought it appropriate that we talk. Properly, just us." Sherlock replied, walking out from behind the workbench and stopping a few metres in front of John. "Of all the places in London, I thought this one most appropriate." 

"Why?" 

"Sentiment." Sherlock replied with a wry smile. "Do you remember when we first met?" he asked softly, his face serious. 

John frowned. Did he remember? Of course he remembered. He nodded, glancing around the room. "I leant you my phone." 

"You did, and already you fascinated me. You were trusting of me from the word go." Sherlock smiled. "Do you remember how you felt that day?" 

John thought back to the moment before he entered this lab for the first time. "I was... Desperate. I was alone, and I needed somewhere to live." 

Sherlock nodded. "Now focus on what you felt when you first saw me." 

"I... I wanted to get to know you. You'd told Mike that you must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and I wanted to know why." 

"But it was more than that, wasn't it?" Sherlock prompted. 

"I felt... this _pull_ towards you. Like I _had_ to accept your offer - like the universe was giving me no other choice." he whispered, then fell silent. 

"I miss you, John." Sherlock breathed after a long pause. "I miss you so much it hurts. There's this ache in my chest that only goes away when you're here. It's an ache I've been living with for seven years and I don't think I can do it much longer." 

"I... Sherlock I... I don't know what you want me to say." John stuttered. 

"I love you, John." Sherlock whispered, stepping forward. "I always have. I know I never told you enough but I do, and these seven years, they've been hell and I-" 

"Stop it." John interrupted. "Just stop it. What about Victor?" 

"Forget about Victor, John. I need you. Only you." Sherlock hesitantly reached out to cup John's cheek. When John didn't pull away, he slowly brought them closer together, pressing his lips against John's. 

Sherlock's lips were exactly how John remembered them, soft, yet demanding, giving and taking in equal measures. 

It wasn't long until John melted into the kiss, his fingers gripping the front of Sherlock's shirt. John increased the pressure of the kiss, taking control. 

His heart was in his throat when he pulled away a few moments later. Sherlock's head moved forward, his lips seeking John's again but John pushed him away. 

"Victor." was all he said. 

Sherlock let out a sigh. "Don't you see yet, John? It's you. It's always been you. _It will always be you_. I lo-" 

"Don't. Don't say it." John breathed, pressing his hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Don't. I can't do this. Don't say it, don't do that to me." 

"It's true though." Sherlock whispered softly. 

"I can't, Sherlock. I won't. You can't just forget Victor exists." He pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's cheek, then walked to the door. "I do too, you know." he whispered just before he left. 

Sherlock slid to the floor and struggled to catch his breath. He'd been so sure. So sure that as soon as he had John alone, this barrier would be gone between them. He hadn’t factored John's morals into the equation. _Stupid._

The door to the lab opened again and Sherlock put his hands over his face. If he could fake a migraine, no one would confront him. 

"Sherlock." 

The soft whisper of his name made him look up immediately. 

John was crouched in front of him, one hand resting on Sherlock's knee. "Sherlock." he whispered again. "My Sherlock. My silly, stubborn Sherlock." 

"Yours." Sherlock breathed, pulling John down for another kiss. 

"Come on, let's do this somewhere more private." John smiled. 

Sherlock stood and slipped his hand into John's. It felt right, even after all these years, and for the first time since he'd left, the ache in John's heart eased.


	9. I Was Once A Loyal Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).
> 
> There's a _little_ bit of sexual content towards the end of this chapter. Nothing too explicit though. 
> 
> [ I Was Once A Loyal Lover by Death Cab For Cutie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgVGO73avew)

###  I Was Once A Loyal Lover

#### 

> _I was once a loyal lover,_  
>  _Whose lips did never seek another's,_  
>  _But now each love's more like a match,_  
>  _A blinding spark that burns out fast._  
> 

The air between them in the cab practically crackled with electricity. John's fists clenched on his thighs and he forced himself to think this through. 

"What about Victor?" he asked softly. 

"What about him?" Sherlock replied, his tone matching John's. 

"Sherlock, I know what it's like to have someone cheat on you. I know what that betrayal feels like. I'm not sure... I don't think I can... I can't be on the other side of that. Not when I know what Victor will go through if he finds out." He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes apologetic. 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and stared John down. "I think deep down, Victor has always known this was a possibility." He answered, turning his gaze to the passing streets. "Do you remember Harry's birthday party - the one you and my mother threw her at my family home?" 

John frowned. "Of course I do, don't change the subject." 

"I'm not changing the subject John. The question was entirely relevant. Do you also remember the photo my mother took of us on that night, when she thought we weren't looking?" 

"We _weren't_ looking Sherlock. At least not at her." John smiled, laughing quietly. "I seem to remember having eyes for no one but you. I remember the photo. We kept a copy in that frame on the fireplace." 

"And what do you think I did with that photo when you left?" Sherlock asked, still gazing out the window of the cab. 

"I don't know, burnt it?" John joked, but his gut clenched and his voice wavered slightly. 

Sherlock finally turned to look at him, his icy eyes narrowing. "Of course I didn't burn it. For the first few months, it stayed on the fireplace. When I met Victor, I moved it into the upstairs bedroom - which by then had become my office. A few years ago, I moved it to my wallet." Sherlock pulled his wallet from his pocket and the smell of expensive leather filled John's nostrils. He flicked it open, pulled out a tattered photo and passed it to John. 

"Why's it so worn?" John asked, staring down at the photo. It was of him and Sherlock as younger men, locked in an embrace under the old oak tree in the garden of the Holmes family mansion. John closed his eyes and thought back. 

_The warm breeze blows through the trees, rustling the leaves and winding through Sherlock's curls as they linger under the branches of the great oak tree that stands a few metres away from where their family and friends are celebrating Harry's birthday._

 _John looks up at Sherlock, his eyes roaming his lover's face. Sherlock takes John's hand and holds him close; swaying gently in time with the music that is being played by the orchestra Mrs Holmes has booked._

 _

"I thought you didn't dance?" John smiles, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. 

"I do on special occasions." Sherlock replies softly, with a smirk. 

"And what would the occasion be today?" John asks, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's cheek. 

"I used to hide in this tree when I was a child." Sherlock smiles, avoiding John's question. "I could climb all the way to the top by the time I was ten. I hid all sorts of things in the branches; my favourite books, my diary, I even hid Mycroft's hamster up there once." He laughs at the memory, nuzzling John's temple with his nose. "The occasion, Doctor Watson, is that my fondest memories of my childhood are in this tree, and now I'm here with the man I love, who looks devilishly handsome in that suit. I rather think that is occasion enough, don't you?" 

He leans down and kisses John softly, moving his hands to hold his army doctor's hips. 

John pulls back slightly, their noses still touching, and smiles up at Sherlock. "Mr Holmes, I had no idea you were so sentimental." he teases gently. 

"I can be, when the mood strikes." Sherlock laughs, kissing John's nose.

_

It was then that Mrs Holmes had taken the photo, capturing them in that embrace forever - John's arms around Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's lips on the tip of John's nose. 

"Because I take it out every day." Sherlock replied, pulling John from his memory. "I take it out and remember what I ruined. I remember what I lost. Victor has seen me do it. He's seen me shed tears over that photo." 

John's heart clenched as his mind supplied him with the image of Sherlock, staring down at the photo in his hand, a few tears escaping his usually stoic façade. 

"That doesn't make this okay." John replied, motioning between them with his free hand. "Just because he's seen you cry over a photo of us doesn't mean he's resigned to the fact you'll cheat." 

"But John-" 

"No, Sherlock. I've been in his place, remember? I can't do that to someone else." He handed back the photo. "I don't know what I was thinking but this was a bad idea." 

"Hammersmith Grove." The cabbie announced. John paid him and climbed out, waiting for Sherlock on the path. 

"John, please." Sherlock whispered, his eyes 

"Come in for a cuppa." John sighed, finding his keys.  


Sherlock looked so out of place in John's tatty kitchen. His elegance clashed violently with the cheap interior of the run down flat. 

John made two mugs of tea in silence, motioning for Sherlock to take a seat at the kitchen table. 

"Okay." he breathed. "Let's have an adult conversation about this. I left because you broke your promise. You used, and I couldn't watch you drug yourself into a coma. I'm not going to say I wish I hadn't left, because I don't. You're clean now, and I'm not sure if that's solely because I left, but I'm pretty sure that's at least partly the reason. Now that I'm back, I... I'll be honest, if you weren't living with and sleeping with Victor, I would have already asked you, no, _begged_ you to take me back. With Victor in the picture, things are a little more difficult." 

"Victor and I argued the night after I saw you again." Sherlock told him as he wrapped his hands around his mug of tea. John looked up. "Oh?" he prompted. 

"Yes. I haven't seen him since." Sherlock stared down into his mug, his curls falling into his face. 

"Oh." John repeated, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say. "Look, Sherlock, I'd... I still care about you. A great deal. And if you want me back, I'm ready and willing-" 

"I do want you back." Sherlock interrupted, his eyes flashing up to John's immediately. 

" _But_ ," John continued, glaring at Sherlock for interrupting him. "Not while Victor is still in your life. I won't let you cheat on him." 

"I don't understand." Sherlock frowned. "Why does it matter? I want _you_." 

"Yes, but I won't be your dirty little secret." John replied. "What were you going to do, sleep with me and then go home every night to Victor? Curl up next to Victor in bed? Maybe even sleep with him too, because you'd have to keep up the fiction of your relationship." He cut himself off, covering his face with his hands. He blinked back tears. "I can't do that, Sherlock. I can't have sex with you now and then watch you walk out that door and back to him." he whispered. 

Sherlock sighed, reaching across the table to stroke John's cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb. John pulled back, standing up and fleeing to the living room. When he turned back to look at Sherlock, his eyes were pleading. "Sherlock, please, don't." 

"Oh I see." Sherlock breathed, following John and standing just in front of him in the middle of the room. "You won't touch me again until I've ended things with Victor." he observed, his tone flat. "You must know that I'd do anything for you, John. I will go home and I will tell him. I'll tell him everything." 

John inhaled sharply. "I... What? What will you tell him?" 

Sherlock cupped John's cheek again and rested their foreheads together. "I'll tell him that from the day I met you, I've been enchanted by, enamoured with and enraptured by you. I'll tell him that my _raison d'être_ is John Watson and that I am not whole without you. I will tell him that you are the sun and I the moon, and I cannot be bright without you. You are the rose and I the bee, I'm drawn to you. I am a wanderer in the desert, and you the oasis on my horizon. I will tell him, John, that I love you, most ardently, and that when I'm with you the noise in my head is quiet, the ache in my chest is gone, and my mind is at its most brilliant. I'll tell him that you are my peace, my home and my heart." 

He pressed a gentle kiss to John's forehead, then stepped back. 

He wasn't expecting John to pull him back by the front of his shirt and press their lips together in a desperate kiss. 

Sherlock ran his tongue along John's bottom lip, nipping at it gently. John moaned as he opened his mouth and felt Sherlock's tongue against his. Shaking fingers stumbled with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and John pulled back to catch his breath. Sherlock used this break to divest John of his shirt, removing his own immediately after. As his fingers fumbled with the button of John's jeans, he was pushed against the wall and pulled down for another searing kiss. John batted Sherlock's hand away and ground their hips together, kissing along Sherlock's jaw and down his neck. 

Sherlock let out a soft groan and his hips bucked against John's. "John..." he breathed, his nails digging in to John's bare shoulders. 

"I've missed you so much." John growled, shoving his hand down the front of Sherlock's trousers and wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's erection. "I'd almost forgotten how you taste," he whispered, running his tongue over Sherlock's pulse. "How you feel in my hand." 

He began stroking Sherlock quickly, running his fingers along the veins and dragging his thumb across the head. Sherlock whimpered, burying his face in John's neck and pressing wet, open mouthed kisses there. His hips bucked and he groaned, pushing himself further into John's hand. 

When he came, it was with John's name on his lips. John followed soon after, despite having not been touched at all. He rested his forehead against Sherlock's chest and let out a shaky laugh. "Well, it's been a long time since I came without being touched." he giggled, wiping his hand on his jeans. 

Sherlock kissed him softly. "I wish I could say it's been a long time since I said your name as I climaxed, but it hasn't." 

"How long has it been?" John asked, reaching for the box of tissues on the table and cleaning Sherlock up. "Just out of curiosity." 

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. "Last time I masturbated was three weeks ago." he shrugged. 

"And- and that was the last time you said my name?" John stuttered, throwing away the tissues. Sherlock nodded and John let out a huff. "Blimey." 

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, pulling his shirt back on and buttoning it up. 

"Not with that, no." John smiled, doing the same. He grimaced as he felt the mess in his jeans but there was little he could do to sort it now. 

"But there _is_ a problem with something else." Sherlock observed. 

"Mm, I rather think there is." John sighed. "Sherlock, I think it's time you went and spoke to Victor, don't you?"


End file.
